with a loud thud, the sound registered on hisaural perceptors and was fed into his analyzer. Ordinarily it wouldhave been discharged as irrelevant data, but cognizance had wroughtcertain subtle changes in the complex mechanism that was M-75.
A yellow light blinked on the control panel, and in response he movedto the board and manipulated handles marked, DAMPER 19, DAMPER 20.
Even as he moved he lapsed again into brooding.
The men had come into the room, clumsy, uncertain creatures, and oneof them had done things, first to the other two robots and then tohim. When whatever it was had been done to him, the blackness had comeagain, and when it had gone the men were leaving the room.
While the one had hovered over the other two robots, he had watchedthe other work with the master control panel. He saw that the otherservomechs remained unmoving while they were being tampered with. Allof this was data, important new data.
"M-11 will proceed as follows," came the sound from nowhere. M-75stopped ruminating and listened.
There was a further flood of sounds.
Abruptly he sensed a heightening of tension within himself as one ofthe other servos swung away from its portion of the panel. Thethrobbing, hungry segment of his analyzer that awareness had severedfrom the fixed function circuits noted, from its aloof vantage point,that he now responded to more signals than before, to commands whosesources lay in what had been the section of the board attended by theother one.
The tension grew within him and became a mounting, rasping frenzy--abattery overcharging, an overloading fuse, a generator growing hotbeyond its capacity. There began to grow within him a sensation of toomuch to be done in too little time.
He became frantic, his reactions were _too fast_! He rolled from endto middle of the board, now back-tracking, now spinning on his singlewheel, turning uncertainly from one side to the other, jerking andgyrating. The conscious segment of him, remaining detached from thosebaser automatic functions, began to know what a man would have calledfear--fear, simply, of not being able to do what must be done.
The fear became an overpowering, blinding thing and he felt himselfslipping, slipping back into that awful smothering blackness out ofwhich he had so lately emerged. Perhaps, for just a fragment of asecond, his awareness may have flickered completely out, consciousnessnearly dying in the crushing embrace of that frustrated electronicsubconscious.
Abruptly, then, the voice came again, and he struggled to file forfuture reference sound patterns which, although meaningless to him,his selector circuits no longer disregarded. "Bert, M-75 can't managehalf the board in his condition. Better put him on the repairs."
"Yeah. Hadn't thought about that." Sokolski cleared his throat. "M-11will return to standard function."
M-11 spun back to the panel and M-75 felt the tension slacken, thefear vanish. Utter relief swept over him, and he let himself besubmerged in purest automatic activity.
But as he rested, letting his circuits cool and his organizationreturn, he arrived at a deduction that was almost inescapable. M-11was _that one_ in terms of sound. M-75 had made a momentous discoverywhich cast a new light on almost every bit of datum in his files: hehad discovered symbols.
"M-75!" came the voice, and he sensed within himself the slamming shutof circuits, the whir of tapes, the abrupt sensitizing of behaviorstrips. Another symbol, this time clearly himself. "You will proceedas follows."
He swung from the board, and the tension was gone--completely. For onesoaring moment, he was _all_ awareness--every function, every circuit,every element of his magnificent electronic physiology available foruse by the fractional portion of him that had become something morethan just a feedback device.
In that instant he made what seemed hundreds of evaluations. Hearrived at untold scores of conclusions. He altered circuits. Aboveall, he increased, manifold, the area of his consciousness.
Then, as suddenly as it had come, he felt the freedom slip away, andthough he struggled to keep hold of it, it seemed irretrievably gone.Once more the omnipotent voice clamped over him like a harsh hand overthe mouth of a squalling babe. "You will go to Section AA-39 of thecontrol board. What's the schedule, Joe? Thanks. M-75, your movementpattern is as follows: Z-29-a-q-39-8...."
Powerless to resist, though every crystal and atom of his reasoningself fought to thrust aside the command, M-75 obeyed. He moved alongthe prescribed pattern, clipping wires with metal fingers thatsprouted blades, rewiring with a dexterity beyond anything human,soldering with a thumb that generated a white heat, removing bulbsand parts and fetching replacements from the vent where they popped upat precisely the right moment. He could not help doing the jobperfectly: the design of the board to its littlest detail wasimprinted indelibly on his memory tapes.
But that certain portion of him, a little fragment greater thanbefore, remained detached and watchful. Vividly recorded was thepassage of the two men into, through, and out of the room, and thethings they had done while there. So even while he worked on the boardhe ran and re-ran that memory pattern through a segment of hisanalyzer. From the infinite store of data filed away in his greatchest, his calculator sifted and selected, paired and compared, andlong before the repair job on the big board was done, M-75 knew how toget out of the room. The world was getting a little small for him.
* * * * *
Gaines dialed a number on the plant phone and swayed back casually inhis chair as he listened to the muted ringing on the other end. Thebuzz broke off in midburp and a dour voice said: "Dirty work and oddjobs division, Lister talking."
"Joe Gaines, Harry. Got a hot squad lying around doing nothing?"
"Might be I could scare up a couple of the boys."
"Well, do so. One of our servos--"
A metallic bang interrupted Gaines, a loud, incisive bang that echoeddankly through the quiet of the chamber.
"What the hell was that?" growled Lister.
Gaines blinked, his eyes following Sokolski as the latter looked upfrom his work and rose to his feet.
"Joe--still there?" came Lister's impatient voice.
"Yeah, yeah. Anyway, this baby's ready for the demo treatment. And areal hot one, Harry. Coupla years inside that Einstein oven and youain't exactly baked Alaska when you come out."
"Shortly."
Once again came the same sharp, metallic clang, ringing through theroom. Unmistakably, it came from the direction of the pile. Slowly, asthough reluctant to let go, Gaines dropped the receiver back on itscradle.
"Bert--" he began, and felt his face grow bloodless.
Sokolski walked over in front of the opening into the maze and stood,arms akimbo, huge head cocked to one side, listening.
"Bert, funny noises coming out of nuclear--"
Sokolski ignored him and took a step forward. Gaines shuffled to hisside, and they listened.
Out of the maze rattled half a dozen loud, grinding, metallicconcussions.
"Bert--"
"You said that before."
"Bert, _listen_!" screeched Gaines.
Sokolski looked up at the high ceiling, squinted, and tried to placethe perfectly familiar but unidentifiable sound that came whisperingdown the maze.
And then he knew. "_The door to the pile!_" he spluttered.
Gaines was beside himself with horror. "Bert, let's get going. Idon't like this--"
All of a sudden Geiger counters in the room began their deadlyconversation, a rising argument that swooped in seconds from a lowmumble to a shouting thunder-storm of sound. Gamma signals hooted, thetip off cubes on either side of the maze entrance became red, and theradiation tabs clipped to their wrists turned color before their eyes.
Then they were staring for what seemed like an eternity, utterlyoverwhelmed by its very impossibility, at a sight they had neverimagined they might ever see: a pile servomech wheeling silentlyaround the last bend in the maze and straight toward them.
Sokolski had sense enough to push the red emergency button as theyfled past it.
&
nbsp; * * * * *
The command sequence fulfilled, M-75 turned away from the repairedboard. He sensed again that disconcerting shift of orientation as hefaced the light-studded panel. Once more he was moving in quickautomatic response to the flickering lights, once more his big chestwas belching and grumbling and buzzing instantaneous un-thoughtanswers to the problem data flashing from the board.
But now he remained aware that he was reacting, and conscious alsothat there had been times when he did not respond to the board. Themoment to moment operation of the controls occupied only a smallportion of his vast electrical innards. So, as he rolled back andforth, flicking controls and adjusting levers, doing smoothly thosethings which he could not help but do, the rest of his complex,changing faculties were considering that fact, analyzing, comparing itto experience and memory, always sifting, sifting. It was not too longbefore he came to a shocking
The Small World of M-75 Page 2
